


The Kindest

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26281039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By LyleThis is Smagol's point of view on how he got the Ring; and his regrets afterwards.
Relationships: Déagol/Gollum | Sméagol
Kudos: 1
Collections: Least Expected





	The Kindest

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Story Notes: I almost wish I had taken some bizarre painkiller or something I could blame this story on. It's a strange little thing, one that might make Tolkien roll over and try to undo the nails to get out of his grave and hunt me down. It almost seems like necrophilia, but it's hard to say--it certainly doesn't fit any definition a dictionary gives. It's only necrophilia if you think Juliet kissing a dead Romio (after she kills him) is!
> 
> Warning: Necrophilia-ish (kiss-kiss). No happy ending. Hurt/no comfort.  
> Synopsis: Smagols point of view on how he got the Ring.  
> Pairing: Smagol/Dagol  
> Spoilers: Nah.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves  
By each let this be heard,  
Some do it with a bitter look,  
Some with a flattering word,  
The coward does it with a kiss,  
The brave man with a sword!

Oscar Wilde

The river gives us many things, yes, it does. I watches it sing by---it scrapes against the rocks and makes them smooth for us to finger. We collects the soft round stones, hides them in pockets. Today is a perfect day for us to poke out the broken shells, stones, the scraps of things. We werent listening until we heard a splash, and now we follows it and finds you crawling out of the river, shaking mud off your closed hands.

What is in your handses, we wonders? Some pretty foundling brought by the river, perhaps. No smell of fish, no raw sweet scent tickles our nose. A stone, then, my love? To turn and admire in your handses. You opens your fist and we watches. Shining bright and beautiful: a ring. Ai, we wants.

I creep up behind you, looking over your shoulder. Give us that, Dagol, my love.

Why?

Because its my birthday, my love, and I wants it. Our ears are singing, ringing, love. We feels nothing but the wanting---it eats our mind and leaves the ringing empty ears. Shining gold. Anything, we would do, anything. We wants. It pulls at us, yes, we feels its yanking allure.

I dont care. I have given you a present already, more than I could afford. I found this, and Im going to keep it.

No. No. No. No. We wants... Oh, are you indeed, my love. 

I feel my fingers circling around your neck, my love, and its a perfect fit. Your eyes dart back and forth like trapped fish as you choke. Reeds shiver around us, lean away from us two as we struggle. You dont want to give up, do you; grip me tightly and thrash about. Forced us to squeeze you, you did. We bends our legs around yours and watch as you cough up red spray, our elbows trapping your arms. Not flail, silly, it does no good. We has the throat in our long fingers---firmly.

The body shudders and falls, head sagging like an old blossom. We watches it almost thoughtfully as it slumps to the ground. Limp handses give up the ring---it shines as we turns it over in our hands, fisting it. My love, you are dead. You falls like the fishes to the river bank and flops once, then still. We strokes our ring for comfort. Does it know we strangled you to hold it?

I purse my lips as if preparing to speak, but say nothing, precious. Instead, I lean to kiss your brow, in apology. So sorry, love. I promise. Would you understand? It yanked us to it, and it took hold of our mind, wicked ring. Didnt mean to, surely, my love. All we ever wanted was your acceptance, before. Sorry. So sorry. Would you forgive? Oh, it hurts us, love; so sorry.

I lean down beside you and it hurts my eyes. Eyeses go weak for a moment, love, as we watches your face. It stares, frozen, like all it sees is nasty whiteness shining at it. Empty, love, and its mouth still looks scared, bent into that scared look. We wipes the slimy weeds from your hair, straightens your head, cradles it in our hands. Shut our eyes and bury our face into your neck. So sorry.

Not air on my head from your lips; its only coming from the sky, blowing down onto my neck, mocking me with its kind stroking hands. Does it know we strangled to hold the bright shining trinket? Not beating on my skin from your chest; its only coming from the lapping river, touching at my legs, pulling us to it. Does it know?

When we looks again, we sees the bruises that wreathe your neck. Red flecks on your lips, nasty cold bits of color. Will you smile for us? In death, you grimace. You used to be always smiling, my love. There. I wont look. I can close my eyes as I kisses you. Your lips are still soft and pliant; they curls between our fingers and they mushes inward when we sits our mouth on them. So relaxed and quiet, my love, and breathing so softly we cant even feel it on our cheeks. Not jolt away, you wont, no, you doesnt want to. Your head lolls in our hands, so eager and willing.

You arent supposed to keep your eyes open while kissing, Dagol; its impolite to leave them staring like that, soullessly into mine. Soft and smooth and wet like river-tossed stones; they look as dead as the stones, too, but we wont think about that. We will just kiss you back. After all, your lips arent cold yet. Why should I find shame in this? It doesnt belong. All that belongs is you. We is sorry, you know, but its over. And now I wont think about it. The handses arent strangling now, my love: they strokes so gently. A pulse beats in my chest and I can pretend it is yours, for the moment.

The river jars you against us suddenly, and you feel so alive, shivering close to us, pulling us closer. Waters shift around us, so cold and slow, fervently stroking around legses. Closing our eyes to smell its heady scents---airy, full of dead blossoms and raw wet soil, but fresh and clean. It murmurs like a sleepwalker, turning hanging grasses over lazily. Its listless eddies curl around your toes and pull. They try to take you away from me, tricksy waves. We saw them carry dead flowers, their old blossoms reeking, fallen into the water and twitching. No, it cant have you, my love. Not yet.

You feels cool against my fingers, love, becoming cold like the river. You looks at the sky, eyes blank, eyelashes nodding in the wind. I cant pretend now, no, not any more. I, we, I dont want to bury you -- leave you -- no, not now. Ach! You are as lifeless as the stones scattered on the river bank. Yet you watch us. I shivers and hides my face.

I rub the water out of your eyes and kiss them closed. Ill fill your pockets with stones as soft and smooth as your eyes, weigh you down, watch the river drag you down. Then Ill kick the sand up around you until it settles and covers you, sifting down over your eyelids. The perfect burial? We dont know. But it suits us.

Or perhaps Ill send you floating on the water-logged boat---down river into the thorns. They hang over the river and hide its flow from all eyes. Water will leak into the little hole our sharp rock makes -- scrapes -- through the bottom. By the time you gets to the middle of the tunnel, your little punctured boat will have filled with water and will send you sinking to the bottom, reeds and muck swirling up to cover your body, murmuring idly to themselves. You can pretend they play you a death lullaby, love, a song to rest you. It lingers forever, my love.

Now is the time, I thinks, before you gets cold and all dead, unreal when I hug you to my chest. No, no, not a lump of nothing against our chest. I must send you to the river.

I ease you into the water, set a kiss on your neck---goodbye. The boat sends you down the river to your end, the pretty pebbles winking, just the color of your eyes, as shiny as the ring in our pocket. I hope it was worth it. The bank smells musky, dry, strange. I watches the river steal your body. And as we turns to walk away, the wind runs past us to catch up with you down the river. I loves you, still. We will remember you when we touches this ring.

And the waves rock me to sleep. It is a strange lullaby. So it should be, for it is my own. The Piano


End file.
